By Candlelight
by coefficientheidi
Summary: "War is a funny thing, Harry." Post OotP


_By Candlelight_

He has calloused hands, a peculiar characteristic for a wizard too young to be more concerned with wielding wands than pens. Jet-black hair, regularly messy and unmanageable, slumps, lank on his head, days unwashed. The boy makes multiple attempts to shift a particular strand from his brow with a well-aimed puff of breath, only to have it return to its customary position, where it covers a small, lightning-bolt shaped scar.

A quill does a rhythmic dance between thoughtful fingers.

The flame atop a short candlestick, the only source of light in the rickety old kitchen of Grimmauld Place, flickers to the deafening groans of the supports of the house as they battle the gusts of wind outside. At the ominous growl of thunder and the subsequent flash of lightning, the boy sets his quill on the decaying tabletop and reaches up with an index finger to push a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

Another flash, and for a split second, weary green eyes are struck by illumination.

There are footfalls in the hallway.

"Hello, Professor."

The man nods in response. "You know, Harry, I'm not your professor anymore. Please, call me Remus."

"Right," says the boy in haste, "sorry."

The man chuckles as he pads, barefoot, to the counter and picks up a glass and an already-open bottle of fire whiskey from next to the sink, not caring that it is already halfway-consumed. "An apology is not necessary," he says. He walks to the table and takes a seat in the chair closest to the boy, setting the half-finished drink onto the careworn surface. "It's nearly two o' clock in the morning, Harry, why are you up this late?"

"Couldn't sleep. What about you?"

"Same." The older man reaches out to grip the bottle of whiskey, noting its distinct warmth as he tips it toward the rim of the glass. Then he stops, and on second thought, lifts it directly to his lips instead and gagging almost immediately as the alcohol stings his throat.

He's never drank much in his life, but it seems like a good idea tonight.

"Why do we have to stay in this decrepit old house?" the boy asks sharply, staring at the quill as he picks it up again and begins to worry it between his fingers.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe it's the only one you've got at the moment."

"It reminds me of Sirius," continues the boy, as if he had received no answer at all. "I miss him; Dumbledore, too."

A heavy feeling finds its way to Remus's throat, one that cannot be burned away by the whiskey.

"And your parents," he finally says. "Of course. All of us miss them, Harry." He glances up, an attempt to lock gazes, but the boy has not lifted his his eyes from the quill. "What are you doing?"

Harry answers flatly, "History of Magic essay."

It is clear from his tone that homework is not nearly enough to occupy his mind this summer.

Rain begins to fall.

"I've heard," says Remus, noticing the blank parchment lying atop an open textbook, "that assignments like these are much easier to complete if you actually write something."

Without warning, Harry slams the quill harshly to the table and lifts his head. "So, it's you, too!" he says loudly. "Is this all adults talk about? 'Just do well in school and you'll be fine!' That's all anyone ever tells me, and I'm sick of hearing it!"

Remus leans back calmly in his chair, watching the young wizard through the diminutive amount of light the melting candle provides. "Why does it bother you, Harry?"

The boy diverts his gaze to a closed window nearby, seeming to observe the storm. "It's as if you—they—know something that I don't; as if you're—_they're_ keeping secrets."

For a moment, Remus does not reply, and Harry does not speak; they merely listen to the rain pounding ferociously on the windowpane and the occasional rumble of thunder.

"We don't like keeping secrets, you know that. We can't have important information leaked."

"I'm not going to tell anyone anything!" Harry shouts. "I should have a right to know these things! _I'm _the one who has to defeat Voldemort!"

Another flash.

Remus picks up the whiskey bottle and taps it thoughtfully with his fingernails. "That's why we're trying to keep you safe, Harry, you're The One," he says.

"But why does it have to be me? I'm not special! I get a scar and I'm forced to fight a dark wizard! They call me 'the boy who lived'," he chokes out, "but I know that I'm not going to live much longer, I _know_. I'm not stupid."

A sudden pang of guilt in Remus's stomach, and the catch in his throat is back. "War is a funny thing, Harry," he says quietly. "Not only does it reinforce hatred for your enemies, but, by the end of it, you may hate your allies just as much. Just as it is straight-forward to light a candle, it is relatively simple to start a war. To stop a powerful flame from burning once it starts, however. . . takes some amount of consideration on our part." Harry finally looks up, but the werewolf's gaze is not on him. "We must physically move forward to blow this candle out, but it may burn again, given the right conditions. Only when there is no wax left will a candle's life end; just as a civilization is guaranteed no more wars only when there are no people left to fight them."

"I don't want anyone else to die because of me," says Harry, eyes daring to glisten. "But. . ."  
><em><br>But—_

"This is why," says Remus, "you must try your hardest to defeat Lord Voldemort. It's impossible to know whether you will die before this is over, but you are the only one who is able to stop him, and as much as Ron, Hermione, or I would be willing to take your place, we cannot."

"Remus?" says the young man, a single tear traveling down his cheek.

"Yes, Harry?"

"I'm scared."

"I know," he says and places a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "We all are."

As a predominantly foreboding gust of wind rocks the house, the withering candlestick finally gives way, and the flame goes out.


End file.
